


To Be Soft

by 401



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Comfort, Cute, Domestic Avengers, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hugs, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Spooning, Steve Rogers Feels, Touch-Starved, Touchy-Feely, read if you've had a rough day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-23 02:47:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17072036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/401/pseuds/401
Summary: Bucky has not been affectionate in so long that he is not sure he knows how anymore.Steve disagrees.





	To Be Soft

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I'd change it up a little and write something that is just wholesome.

“Do I hug good?”

 

“What?”

 

“Do I hug good? Do I do it right?”  


Steve frowned at the question and thought it over. He loved Bucky’s hugs, there was no doubt in that, but they were out of practice and sometimes inopportune.

He seemed to have a slight lack of hazard awareness that made him ruthless in combat and well, hazardous in everyday situations. Steve could be holding a pot of boiling water, standing on a ledge, balancing a pile of dishes and Bucky would disregard it completely, pulling him backwards into his arms and squeezing as if he was scared he would evaporate. Or leave. The thought of it made Steve’s throat tighten a little.

 

“Sometimes, you hug a little too hard,” Steve admitted, “It’s not a major problem, you just have to be careful.”

 

Bucky’s face turned from vacant thoughtfulness to anxiety in the time it took Steve to look up and meet his eyes.

 

“Do I hurt you?” he whispered.

 

“God, no, Bucky. That’s not what I meant,” Steve assured, crossing the space between them and sitting down next to him.

 

“You just need to be careful. Especially with Nat and Sam. They’re… normal. You can hug me as hard as you want though, as long as I’m not holding anything dangerous.”

 

Bucky winced.

 

“The pasta?” He groaned, looking down.

 

“The pasta,” Steve chuckled.

 

He had tried to make it seem like it didn’t hurt when it happened, but there is only so much _anyone_ can play off pouring an entire saucepan of boiling water over their front. He had shouted, Bucky had let go of him like it was he who was boiling hot. It had taken him hours to convince Bucky to leave the bathroom and realise that Steve wasn’t going to be angry with him for the rest of time, as if he had even been angry in the first place. The burns healed in a day, no scars were left, but Bucky looked like a reprimanded child every time it was brought up.

It had been treated like an incident by SHIELD. A display of ‘improper and damaging social conduct’. The words had left the therapist’s mouth and Steve had struggled to believe it. He had sat there and stared at the man for a solid thirty seconds before he could find words that wouldn’t get himself fired.

They hadn’t seen Bucky sob for an hour afterwards because he had realised that he had hurt him. They hadn’t seen him run out into the pouring rain to find a 24-hour pharmacy for burn cream, they hadn’t seen him apologise over and over until Steve had finally convinced him that no damage had been done. They saw someone who did things _wrong._ He was the wrong kind of tactile, the wrong kind of affectionate. Steve had spent the rest of the day after the meeting furious.

 

“I personally _love_ your hugs,” Steve shrugged, “I would go as far as to say they are my favourite hugs.”  


Steve said this with conviction, because it was true.

Any affection from Bucky struck a chord with him, but he had this way of wrapping him up in his arms that blocked out the world and as much as the timing was sometimes not so perfect, he always knew when it was _really_ needed. He seemed to be able to read a face better than anyone Steve had ever met. The slightest twitch of negativity would register, and he’d be there, cradling Steve to his chest, holding him, swaying them from side to side as if they were hanging between an embrace and the beginnings of a slow dance. Steve would let himself go limp, something he couldn’t do with anyone else without taking both parties to the floor, and pretend that wherever they were, be it the dark of their bedroom after hours of sleeplessness or the lull at the end of a mission, no longer existed. He did not have to pretend hard, either. Being swathed in heat, pressure, the familiar smell of home and comfort, it all made for perfect escapism.

 

“What made you bring that up?” Steve asked.

 

Bucky’s train of thought had already shifted, so Steve prepared to have to remind him what he had even asked.

 

“Huh?” Bucky hummed, now hanging off the couch seats so that the living room appeared upside down, “Oh right. I’m not sure.”  


“No, come on,” Steve coaxed gently, “That kind of question doesn’t come out of nowhere.”

 

Bucky shrugged nonchalantly but diverted his gaze from Steve’s like he always did when he felt uncomfortable, training his eyes on some nondescript spot on the wall as if his life depended on the focus.

 

“Buck?”

 

“Nothing.”  


Steve breathed a chuckle and sat back against the couch cushions. Bucky really had not changed that much, when he thought about it. There were days, admittedly, when felt like he was searching through molasses for any semblance of the personality he remembered, but those were the bad days, the worst ones, where Bucky could barely hold a conversation, when his words were shaky and distant, and Steve had to walk on eggshells just to avoid ending up back at square one. Most of the time, Bucky was just Bucky. His laugh was still filthy, his smile still grew on one side before the other. He was still endlessly kind, he was still the most stubborn man Steve had ever met. He loved it, even if it was hard work.

 

“Please?” Steve asked, “We can watch that god-awful…”

 

“…Storage Wars is not awful. It’s hilarious.”

 

“Yeah, yeah okay. I will sit and watch _three_ full episodes of it with you if you tell me why you asked that,” Steve bargained.

 

Bucky stayed silent.

 

Steve sighed and shifted on the couch, turning himself upside down so that his legs were on the back of the couch, mirroring Bucky.

 

“God, I don’t know how you do this without wanting to throw up,” He groaned, closing his eyes to void the jarring image of his inverted coffee table.

 

Bucky chuckled, laying his hand in Steve’s and waiting for him to squeeze, like he always did.

 

“I worry that I don’t do things like that right,” he finally muttered, “I’m not good at being soft.”

 

Steve span himself around again, sitting the right way up when the amount of blood draining into his face was as much as he could tolerate.

 

“That’s not true.”

 

Bucky’s eyes shot to Steve’s. He stared, waiting for elaboration, but Steve had none.

 

“That’s not true,” he repeated, shrugging, “You’re great at being soft, all things considered.”  


Bucky grimaced and sat up, lying flat with his head on Steve’s lap and staring at the ceiling. The lamp next to them made his eyelashes cast flowery shadows on his cheeks, a dark frill on each cheekbone that shaded the blue, made it blurry and dreamy. Steve swallowed the sigh that caught in his throat. This was not a teen drama; he was not allowed to swoon.

 

“That’s the thing, Steve,” He groaned, “ _All things considered_. I want to be good by normal people standards. I don’t want to be good ‘for a mass murderer.’”

 

Steve physically flinched at the phrasing, playing it off as a casual shift in position. Maybe he shouldn’t have. Maybe he should have shown Bucky just how much hearing him talk about himself like that hurt, but it would only make him feel guilty. Bucky didn’t think about himself like Steve did. He forgot that sometimes.

 

“Don’t say that,” He managed, his voice thicker than he expected. He swallowed hard.

 

“But…”

 

“No, Bucky. ‘But’ nothing. Don’t say that.”

 

Bucky bit his lip too hard and stared off, eyes tracing the small living room, skin cast gold by the light and shade that played off the walls. It painted pictures; a wizened old man next to the coat rack, a ship behind the bookcase, the rheumatic branches of an old tree from the television aerial. Bucky looked at all of these ‘paintings’ and tried to ignore the turning in his stomach and the sadness that was hanging from Steve’s face in great sinewy curtains. He felt as if they might fall onto his face, suffocating him until it was all he could feel. The room did not feel warm anymore.

 

“Hey,” Steve whispered, cupping his cheek, looking down at him still lying in his lap.

 

Bucky shifted away from the touch, his breathing hitching in his throat. He went to sit up, but relaxed when Steve’s face showed nothing but concern and softness. Again, Steve’s throat felt unbearably tight.

The pervasive fear of being physically punished for the smallest thing was one that clung to Bucky no matter how hard they tried to snuff it out. It didn’t even have to be something _he_ had done.

Steve had been cooking once, pulling bowls out of the cupboard to fill with the best attempt at stir fry he could manage and had dropped one. It had hit the ground with a crash, breaking into three large sections and scattering across the kitchen. Bucky had not even touched the bowls, but he had broken into a string of rapid, tearful apologies, bracing to be slapped when Steve raised his hands to comfort him. Steve had sat there at the table, fiddling with the suddenly unappetising noodles and waiting for Bucky to be ready to leave the bathroom, staring numbly at his hands and realising just how out of his depth he was.

 

“Bucky, I’m not mad at you,” He whispered.

 

“I know.”

“I mean it, Buck,” Steve stressed, “Look at my face.”  


Bucky tilted his chin up slightly. Steve stuck his tongue out at him, crossing his eyes. Bucky shook his head and laughed, turning onto his side with his back to him. He felt Steve’s nose against his neck and craned away.

 

“Don’t you dare tickle me,” Bucky warned, “Don’t start something you can’t finish. I will win.”

 

Steve shrugged, sat back and waited. Predictably, he shifted closer again. Steve turned himself awkwardly on the too-small couch and laid down, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s middle and burying his face in his hair. Bucky wriggled back further, tangling their legs and softening into the hollow of Steve’s chest. They laid like that for a while, the silence in the room no longer stifling.

 

“Steve,” Bucky whispered.

 

“Mm?”

 

“I love you. So much.”

 

Steve settled his hands around Bucky’s, metal and flesh. He rubbed his thumbs over the tops of them, tracing absent circles and memorising the feeling. He had never thought that the feel of brutal metal digits and punched in callous would mean safety and comfort, but it did. There were a lot of things that Steve had not expected. He ran with it.

 

“I love you more,” He replied.

 

Bucky felt him grin against the back of his neck and thought, just for a moment, that he was perhaps not as bad at ‘soft’ as he thought.

So, in the small space, they drifted in comfortable silence. There was no smoke, no shouting, no gunshot. No orders, no expectations. There were movie nights, utility bills, Ikea furniture and spilt drinks. There were thunderstorms and passing cars. There houseplants, Chinese takeout and long nights where the sleeplessness was from talking, not hurting. There was life, and the warmth was returning to them both.

It always did. Sometimes that knowledge was all that got Steve through the bad days. No matter what, Bucky would always come back. The ice would always melt, and things would always fall back into their places.

Sometimes, the places were different than before, and the pegs needed to be carved out again, the ever-changing shapes game that was their life keeping them on their toes, and that was okay.

 

Sometimes, being on your toes is what you need to do to reach the stars.

 

 

  


 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
